The Complexities of Human Nature
by VivikaThemis
Summary: As reconstruction of the school comes to an end and people move on to rebuild their lives, Hermione is presented with a photograph of a woman from the 70s who looks shockingly like herself. From there, things rapidly progress, and she finds herself in a whirlwind of chaos, featuring time-turners, Death Eaters, Marauders, and just a dash of mental instability. A series of drabbles.
1. Introduction

**Disclaimers**

This is a nonprofit work of fiction. The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. No infringement is intended.

The views and opinions expressed in this story are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the writer.

* * *

 **Summary**

After the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger and the wizarding world are recovering from war. As reconstruction of the school comes to an end and people move on to rebuild their lives, Hermione is presented with a photograph of a woman from the 70s who looks shockingly like herself. From there, things rapidly progress. She finds herself in a whirlwind of chaos, featuring time-turners, Death Eaters, romance, and enough mental instability to fill a psychiatric hospital.

* * *

 **Introduction  
Yes, You Should Read This Part**

It is generally accepted that nurture plays a significant role in the development of human beings. It is highly unlikely that a person be born with inherently evil nature. All creatures are capable of both good and bad, yet most remain somewhere in the gray areas. This is demonstrated by the ruthless Hermione Granger, a generally accepted 'good' person, who sacrifices Umbridge to the centaurs, no doubt knowing their brutal folklore, who holds Rita Skeeter captive in a jar, then subsequently blackmails the journalist into doing her bidding, and who permanently disfigures a sixteen year old girl for reporting rule-breaking activity.

Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore also work in the shades of gray, though whether they were, in the end, 'good' men is still a matter of controversy.

With that established, we must ask ourselves, what has happened to the villains in our story to make them, in our eyes, evil? Was Tom Riddle a sociopath? Did the effects of a parent under the influence of Amortentia during conception make him incapable of feeling love? Or was he a product of abandonment, social outcasting, and racism? Was the insanity of Bellatrix Black due to inbreeding, Azkaban, or something else? What circumstances drove Peter Pettigrew to taking the Dark Mark?

This tale will take us down an emotional rollercoaster, full of betrayals, domestic abuse, genetic instability, neglect, bullying, and ignorance. We will explore the childhood of Severus Snape, the paradoxes of time travel, the connotations of bigotry, and the medieval mindset of the 1970s pureblood movement. And we will observe human nature vs. societal nurture.

* * *

 **Warnings**

This fanfiction deals with mental illness, including, but not limited to: clinical depression, post traumatic stress disorder, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder, narcissism, anxiety disorder, and eating disorders.

Later chapters may contain explicit accounts and/or detailed depictions of: homosexuality, drug abuse, violence, self harm, suicide, torture, child abuse, pedophilia, rape, incest, and more.

Ideologies (religious and otherwise) will be dissected; Abrahamic and Judeo-Christian beliefs, in particular, will be heavily debated, and at times vilified.

Seeing as this story focuses on the brutalities of war and the complexity of human beings, dark content will be relatively frequent. Please be aware of the fact that I will not be posting any other warnings. Proceed with caution.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

 **New Readers** : Welcome to The Complexities of Human Nature, formerly known as The Life and Lies of Hermione Granger. Please be aware that this fanfiction is written in drabble form. Chapters will be extremely short. No, I will not make them longer. This format makes updating less daunting for me. This fic will mostly be from the POV of Hermione Granger, but I will be posting several companion fics for other characters. Keep an eye out for these. I'm particularly looking forward to posting the perspectives of Bellatrix Black and Peter Pettigrew.

 **Followers** : If you started reading this before the revamp on June 1st, 2017, you'll notice that the chapters have been majorly rearranged. Whereas they were typically 3k words, they're now under 1k. This is because I've been struggling with finishing chapters, which seems to result in writer's block.

 **All Readers** : At the bottom of each chapter there will now be an interactive section, which will ask for your opinions. If possible, please be sure to answer this in your review, because it _will_ impact how the story progresses.


	2. Friday, August 18th, 1998

**Disclaimers**

This is a nonprofit work of fiction. The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. No infringement is intended.

The views and opinions expressed in this story are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the writer.

* * *

 **I've been slipping through the years  
My old clothes don't fit like they once did  
So they hang like ghosts  
Of the people I've been**

-Death Cab For Cutie, _You Can Do Better Than Me_

* * *

 **Tuesday, August 18th, 1998**

Hermione had come to truly appreciate her afternoon tea time with the newly appointed Headmistress. After the Battle of Hogwarts, many had stayed to assist in the reconstruction of Hogwarts. For the month of May, a makeshift town had sprouted up along the edges of the Forbidden Forest and the Black Lake, littered with tents and hammocks. The seemingly endless funerals ceased as May turned to June, and by July the crowds had slowly returned to their families and shifted their attention to rebuilding their own lives.

The ones who remained longest were those most profoundly affected by the war. Few were surprised by the ferocity in which Neville Longbottom threw himself into the reparation of the greenhouses, nor the crazed determination George Weasley demonstrated in his renovation of Gryffindor Tower. Some had gossiped about Harry Potter's insistence on fixing up the dungeons and Shrieking Shack, but those who knew him well understood his reasoning. None had anticipated Draco Malfoy's return to the school after his trial, arriving with single-minded resoluteness in restoring the Great Hall and ground floor classrooms.

By early August, the castle had been fully reassembled, leaving only Neville in his apprenticeship—and Hermione.

In all honesty, she was not completely sure why she had yet to leave. Even Harry and Ron had pounced on their offer to train as Aurors, despite never having attended their seventh year or sitting their NEWTs. Clearly, defeating a notorious Dark Wizard negated the necessity of formal education. It had been nearly a week since they'd left, and Hermione had wiled away her time taking inventory of the library and restocking Poppy Pomfrey's medicinal potions.

The petite brunette nibbled on a lemon biscuit as Minerva poured her another cup of tea. She murmured a thank you, but was too absorbed with the album in her lap to bother with the scalding liquid.

"Ah, my late husband," commented the tartan clad witch, leaning over to examine the pages with her favourite student. "Elphinstone Urquart. That was taken on the day of his third proposal to me, in 1974." She chuckled, shaking her head in nostalgia. It had become customary for them to flip through the Headmistress' memorabilia from her younger years, swapping stories and expressing their yearning for things long passed. "The poor man was smitten. Yet I was still lovelornly watching my muggle infatuation from afar."

Having already heard the complicated and thrilling tale of Professor McGonagall's youthful career, courtship, and eventual marriage, Hermione simply smirked and nodded appreciatively. Finally reaching for her tea, she flipped the page, and found herself spluttering into the crook of her elbow as she avoided sloshing Earl Grey onto the aged pictures below. After several long moments, she managed to inhale deep, gulping breaths, placing the fine china cup and saucer back onto the table between them. Her whiskey orbs flickered up towards Minerva, wide and disbelieving, before returning to their prior focal point.

A secretive smile curled up the elderly woman's thin lips. "That," she told Hermione conspiratorially, "Is Persephone Glacendres. She was my student in the 70s, and later my friend. She disappeared the night of the Longbottoms' attack. Karkaroff identified her as a fellow Death Eater, though Dumbledore swayed the Wizengamot to have her exonerated as a spy, regardless of her evanescence."

"I didn't know there was a double agent in the first war," Hermione murmured, unable to lift her gaze from the photograph.

There was a pregnant pause before Minerva spoke again. "The resemblance is quite striking, is it not?"

She didn't answer, instead running a finger across the faded image. Even if she had wanted to respond, she didn't know what to say. A thousand questions buzzed around in her head, none of which she wanted to voice aloud. But when the silence stretched on, the headmistress continued.

"In your fourth year I approached Albus. It was the night of the Yule Ball, just as we'd finished removing the celebratory enchantments on the Great Hall. Though I admit I had not seen a likeness until then. I believed, at the time, that perhaps you were a relative. Albus quickly negated that suspicion."

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. It was a relief to have her fears so immediately put to rest. For the worn picture she stared at looked very much like herself.

The woman, in some ways, looked nothing like her. Her hair was lighter—a caramel colour in contrast to Hermione's chocolate curls. It was not evocative of the frizz and bushiness that her tormentors had teased her for as a child. She could not tell whether it was riotous or tame due to the elegant coif it had been placed in. And Hermione had never really worn makeup, considering it superfluous. Even for the Yule Ball she had only applied a light gloss and a small amount of mascara. However, this woman wore coal black winged eyeliner, her lips a startling shade of cherry red. She did not have the gaunt, hollow look of a woman recently recovering from war. There were no bruise like rings circling her eyes, as there were around her counterpart's. Her skin was smooth and glowing, unlike Hermione's, which was chapped and peeling from neglect.

Yet, despite these differences, the face staring back at her, smiling mysteriously, was astonishingly similar to her own.

The same uncommon, honey coloured eyes. The same heart shaped face and high cheekbones. Her lower lip was pouty, accented by the lipstick, with the same small dimples at the corners of her mouth. But behind the glamorous cosmetics and the secretive smile, there was a haunted, hunted flicker in her gaze. Hermione recognized that sharp stare. She saw it every morning in her mirror, as she dutifully brushed her teeth—a mechanical mannerism, one last instinctual genuflection of her muggle upbringing.

Persephone Glacendres, McGonagall had said. Someone should have warned that girl that no facade, nor any amount of face paint— _war paint?_ —could conceal that panicked glint.

"Did Headmaster Dumbledore supply you with an explanation?" the young Gryffindor asked, carefully regulating the pitch of her voice. It would not do to squeak, or stutter. She finally looked up to meet Minerva's probing scrutiny.

"He did," her soft Scottish brogue affirmed. "I do not mean to trouble you, Hermione. But I have known since Albus's death that it would fall on me to inform you. Now that the war is over, and you have regained your health, I believe it is _time_ you know."

The thudding against her rib cage ached. She had never shied away from knowledge, but for the first time in her life, she was not sure if she was ready to learn the answer to her question. Seeing her Professor's expression, she recognized that this would be a difficult truth. Her fingers clenched together to cover the album in her lap, attempting to stay the trembling of her hands.

McGonagall reached up to grasp a chain hidden under her high collared cloak, pulling from beneath it an object that Hermione immediately identified. It was not the same as the one she'd had before. This was smaller, with an extra ring encircling it. Instead of gold, it was white, like platinum, the sand held within the hourglass like black ash. Looking at it she knew, with clawing clarity, what the answer would be. She felt the colour drain from her face, and her heart seemed to flutter before feeling as if it had stopped altogether and dropped into her stomach, bile rising in her throat and choking her.

 _No_ , she thought in disbelief. That single word echoed in her mind. It was not enough to drown out the dozens of other discernments. A whisper of a rhyme. _I mark the hours, every one, Nor have I yet outrun the sun. My use and value, unto you, Are gauged by what you have to do._ A warning from a wizard. _Mysterious thing, time. Powerful, and when meddled with, dangerous._ She wished that she could stop the words that were about to spill from her mentor's lips. The same lips that had cautioned her just a few years ago— _a lifetime ago_ —while presenting a third year with a seemingly innocuous golden trinket. _You cannot travel forwards, Miss Granger—only backwards._

"You are not a relative of Persephone Glacendres, Hermione. You _are_ Persephone Glacendres."

And from there, things rapidly progressed.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

The rhyme I used is from the inscription on Hermione's time-turner from Prisoner of Azkaban. Glacendres is from the French _glace et cendres_ , meaning 'ice and ash'.

* * *

 **Interactive Question**

Do you think Hermione Granger is religious? Why or why not? And if she is, what religion do you believe she'd be?

* * *

 **Reviews are my muse.**


	3. Saturday, July 16th, 1977

**Disclaimers**

This is a nonprofit work of fiction. The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. No infringement is intended.

The views and opinions expressed in this story are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the writer.

* * *

 **The paths have been crossed  
The crumbs are gone and the way is lost  
Melancholy fantoms eye our skins  
Poison apples falling with the wind  
Hear the sigh of the trees  
Those who enter here never leave**

-A Fine Frenzy, _Rangers_

* * *

 **Saturday, July 16th, 1977**

It was nauseating, this sensation. It reminded her vaguely of the way she sometimes felt at night, when she was jerked awake by the impression of falling. Colours blurred so quickly past her eyes that tears welled up, spilling forth and sliding down her cheeks, only to evaporate the moment they dripped down her face. She wondered, vaguely, if somewhere, in some time, a tiny droplet of salt water splashed against someone's skin.

Something tugged at her navel, not unlike the feeling induced by a portkey. She was unsure of how long she stood there, with the world spinning around her, dizzying her and causing her head to throb. Time was, after all, relative. But the exhaustion that entered her body, the hunger that eventually made her stomach rumble soundlessly in this place where no noise existed, told her that her body had measured the time in hours. She felt as if she were suffocating, stuck in an endless loop of apparating. And it simply continued, on and on.

When the spinning finally stopped, she found she could stand no longer.

Falling to the ground, the robe clad girl threw her hands out to support herself. The dirt of the forbidden forest swayed, rotating at a leisurely pace. She gripped it tightly between her fingers in an attempt to hold gravity in place, gasping in huge lungfuls of air and blinking away the disorientation through bleary eyes. Slowly, so slowly, the vertigo began to ebb.

It was then, when her gaze focused, that she saw the silver chain dangling from her neck.

 _Remain calm._

These were the words that repeated themselves over and over again in her mind, as she stared in petrified shock at the broken shards of glass clasped to the piece of jewellery. The charcoal coloured contents were indistinguishable from the damp dirt below her.

" _Reparo_ ," she murmured, poking her wand at the mangled remnants. Nothing happened. Frustrated, with desperation tinging her voice, she tried again. " _Reparo_!"

Picking herself up, she did the only thing she knew to do. She began her journey to Dumbledore.

* * *

Uncertain of her precise destination—cryptic was a generous description for Minerva's hasty preparatory warnings—she approached the stone gargoyle. She had encountered not one person on her trek across the grounds and through the castle, which was not necessarily surprising. Considering the feather-like aspen seeds lazily floating on the warm breeze, she'd likely arrived during summer vacation.

If nothing else, McGonagall had provided her with the password to the Headmaster's office. After ascending the spiralling staircase, she had found the office empty, so she seated herself in one of the soft chairs in front of the desk and knit her hands together, waiting.

The silvery instruments spun and whirred at her. Her natural curiosity almost drove her to examine them, but she did not think Dumbledore would appreciate walking in to find a stranger poking and prodding at his things. Fawkes tilted his head at her from his perch, but clearly decided she was a non-threat, as he soon after returned to burying his beak in the crook of his feathers. For Hermione's part, she simply tried to evade the distinct feeling that she was... wrong.

Not doing something wrong. Not in danger. But just _wrong_. As if her very existence was out of joint.

The door handle turned behind her and she twisted expectantly. Dumbledore entered, a hard, neon candy between his teeth, and stopped, staring at her in surprise.

Her stomach dropped. No matter who had sent her, he was clearly not expecting this.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," she greeted tremulously after a long silence. Albus nodded slowly, warmth weighted with suspicion in his normally bright eyes.

"I am he."

Clearly, it was her turn, but she found she was at a complete loss. Best to start as she had been instructed. "Headmaster Dumbledore arranged for my arrival," she informed him hesitantly, aware as she said it how absurd it sounded. His tufty white eyebrows rose.

"Most curious, as I can testify with certainty that I have never seen you in my life. Perhaps we should begin with you telling me your name," he directed, a slight bite of mistrust clear in his voice as he sat down behind his desk.

She took a deep breath, searching for the best place to start. "In this day and age, sir, I have no name." She knew there was nothing she could offer him; no truth she could tell him without revealing too much. So she told him what she could, how she could, knowing it would not be enough. But all the while determined to think of something, _anything_ , to allow her to stay at Hogwarts. "I have no family here," she began, the painful truth of it causing her voice to quiver. "I have no friends, nor connections. I have no wizarding heritage. You will find no record of my existence. But I can tell you that I am here for the sole purpose of defeating Lord Voldemort."

The ancient wizard had listened politely, steepling his fingers, the misgivings only increasing as she spoke in earnest. But at her final statement, he stilled. It was a long moment before the fading of her voice and her next words, during which Dumbledore watched her with narrowed eyes.

Tentatively, she began again. "There is only one thing I can give you, Headmaster. One thing that may convince you to trust me." Licking her dry, cracked lips, the teenager sitting before him whispered, "Let me show you who I am."

Leaning across the desk, the girl knew there was nothing else she could do. _This_ was what he would require of her. And she would sacrifice what she could to gain what she must. "I know you are a master of Legilimency. _Please_. Look into my mind, and let me show you what I can."

The silence stretched on. But, with agonizing slowness, Albus unsteepled his hands and withdrew his wand from the sleeve of his cloak, pressing the fabled Hallow to her temple, and wordlessly cast the spell.

What he saw was himself.

Twinkling blue eyes gazed out of an aged face. The auburn colour had leaked from his hair, leaving behind a silvery mane that fell halfway down his back. The flesh of his hand was blackened.

A flash, and Tom Riddle appeared instead. A snake-like version of the handsome young man that was now so actively involved in the politics of the wizarding community.

Replaced by James Potter, with a stag patronus flittering across the sky, forcing dozens of dementors backwards to protect a ragged man from their kiss.

Hermione's carefully selected memories flowed passed his mind's eye, vivid and frightening. One monstrous image after another. He did not press her for further answers, but instead accepted what she offered him. And, when they finally ceased, he pulled himself out of the short clips she had exposed to him. Only four words rang hollowly into the air between them.

"You are a seer."

Shaking her head, this woman, this almost-girl, pulled from beneath her shirt the remnants of the trinket. And suddenly, Dumbledore trusted her. Or, at the very least, he was fully prepared to use her to his best advantage.

"Well then. Let me be the first to welcome you to July 16th, 1977. Tell me, my dear—do you happen to be fluent in any language other than English?"

Between the two of them, they began to brainstorm who, from this day forward, she would be.

* * *

 **Interactive Question**

Do you think that the past can be changed when using a time-turner? Explain.

* * *

 **Reviews are my muse.**


	4. Friday, August 5th, 1977

**Disclaimers**

This is a nonprofit work of fiction. The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. No infringement is intended.

The views and opinions expressed in this story are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the writer.

* * *

 **First we form habits;  
Then they form us.**

-Rob Gillbert

* * *

 **Friday, August 5th, 1977**

"Who are you?"

"Persephone Maeve of the house Glacendres, motto _Nettoyés par le feu_."

"And where did you attend your first six years of schooling?"

"I was privately tutored."

"Rumors circulated that you were a squib, fuelled by the fact that you never attended _Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons_ and were essentially hidden by your family. Please explain the basis for this information."

"I suffered from uncontrolled bursts of magic from a young age, disabling me from formal education. Further circumstances were also prominent in the decision to keep my contact with others at a minimum."

"And what were these circumstances?"

"An ability to prophesize. However, this information will remain private, spoken of only amongst the Hogwarts staff and Board of Governors, almost guaranteeing its rapid circulation through Hogwarts' gossip mill."

"How did your family die?"

"The manor was engulfed in Fiendfire. My parents, my brother, and the entirety of the household staff perished in the flames. It's officially documented to have been started by my fifth year brother, Tuetates. There is speculation amidst certain social circles claiming that it was an assassination, due to my father's staunch support of Lord Voldemort's uprising in Britain, as he was the first prominent politician in France to endorse the Dark Lord."

"How did you escape the fire?"

"I was in the courtyard with the gardener, who doubled as my Herbology tutor, replanting Venomous Tentacula. He was bitten in the pandemonium, and the poison proved fatal."

Dumbledore nodded, and Hermione— _Persephone_ , she reminded herself—allowed a small smile. They had worked endlessly on this persona.

Though the real Persephone Glacendres had indeed been a squib, and truly had perished in the flames, the story was easily manipulated. Considering the convenience of the circumstances, and the second-hand knowledge of Headmaster Dumbledore's control of Fiendfire, Hermione suspected that the Glacendres family had, indeed, been targeted by the seemingly harmless man before her. However, she didn't ask, and he offered nothing to either confirm or debunk her supposition.

Unless a partially charred birth certificate for her alias and a trunk full of family heirlooms counted as confirmation.

Albus had carefully dispersed information to known quidnuncs. Madam Malkin had been a wise choice, as she was known to embellish stories she'd overheard in her shop while taking measurements for her clients. And as the autumn term would soon be upon them, she would no doubt have many customers to whom she could relate her exaggerated tales.

Over the course of the past several weeks, Dumbledore had put her through rigorous lessons, always beginning with the same line of questioning. Whereas in the beginning she had been given tomes such as _The Pureblood Directory_ —which had been published anonymously and covered the Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood lines of Britain—and hand bound, title-less volumes that contained detailed genealogies for French families, she had made quick work of them. As they progressed, she had moved on to _Miss Manners' Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behaviour_ by Judith Mulciber, _A Study of Civility_ by Elsa Urquart, _The Lady's Guide to Perfect Gentility_ by Emily Thornwell, and _Manières de la Bonne Société_ by Aurélie Leveque. On the third week, her reading list had contained _History of Dark Magick_ by Theophilius Burke, _Embracing the Olde Ways_ by Matilda Vain, and _The Muggleborn Controversy_ by Edvard Radzinsky.

To date, _The Muggleborn Controversy_ and _Embracing the Olde Ways_ had been her favourites. She had never been exposed to the explanations as to why Muggleborns were so discriminated against, nor had she delved into the deeper intellection of Dark Magic. Contrary to her initial misgivings, she had discovered that she was quite fascinated with pureblood philosophy, and though she disagreed with the methods being used by the Death Eaters, she was not necessarily against the reestablishment of certain practices.

Her support excluded wizarding etiquette. In her opinion, it was outdated, sexist rubbish, stuck in a mid 19th century patriarchy. Dowries and male heirs, titles and formalities. But on another level, understanding these customs gave her insight as to why Muggleborns were considered so barbaric. Polite society required tips of the head and precise greetings, from how to address a fellow pureblood, to whom you were honour bound to curtsy. Obeisance was of utmost importance, and to disregard this was utterly offensive.

Her most recent lesson had, surprisingly, covered fashion. When Dumbledore had insisted on a 'field trip' and taken her to Muggle London, she had at first been excited. Until he ushered her into a salon. She would never forget the burning itch of bleach in her hair, nor the tight, raw sensation of having her eyebrows plucked.

Dumbledore had justified it by claiming that a _finite_ would not return her to her natural appearance. Hermione was not amused.

Admittedly, the end result was not unpleasant. She looked every bit a member of the Glacendres family. Her eyes, perhaps, were not the same brown as those of her 'family,' but her newly caramel-coloured hair was the exact same shade as Mademoiselle Glacendres' had been, and her figure was similar. If, perhaps, the shadows under her eyes or the gauntness of her cheeks were too prominent, well, who would question it? After all, she'd supposedly just lost her family, standing by as they were violently consumed by demonic flames.

The afternoon had concluded with a trip obtain robes, toiletries, and other imperative items. If she hadn't read Rita Skeeter's biography on Dumbledore, she would have felt self conscious as he accompanied her on her quest for undergarments, but he remained aloof for the entirely of their shopping. She dreaded the days when she'd be wearing anything other than her school uniform. It seemed that corseted robes were at the peak of wizarding French fashion. The shoes, however, were lovely. Short, sturdy heels that rested a few inches above her ankles, laced from toe to top. They were very 17th century, and she was enamored by them.

That night he had assigned her every edition of _Witch Weekly_ from 1960 to 1977, as well as every _Daily Prophet_. Their French counterparts, _Madame Marseille_ and _Nouvelle de Soir_ were equally accounted for. She had virtually no interest in the material, but she trudged on dutifully.

The Headmaster had moved on to her next assignment. Persephone let out a squeal of delight when she realized that her reading list consisted of textbooks from years one through seven, including both the Hogwarts and Beauxbatons curriculums. Atop those were the official documents Albus had provided, ranging from OWL equivalents to a French apparition license. And atop these he placed a sealed enveloped and a single Gringotts key.

"I believe that should be enough to keep you busy for the next two weeks. This is for the family vault, as well as Tuetate's trust fund. You have a separate account, but the will very strictly states that it cannot be accessed until your seventeenth birthday. Which is…?"

"August twenty-ninth, sir."

"Regardless of the status of your trust fund, you have a sizeable fortune at your disposal. You've also been left the estate grounds in Rueil-Malmaison, though the manor itself is unsalvageable. There are two other properties. One is a townhouse in Strasbourg, the other is a cottage in vallée de la Molignée—essentially a vacation home in Belgium. Do you have any questions?"

"No, sir."

"Excellent. I'll expect you back in my office on Friday the 12th at 11a.m. In the meantime, please practice clearing your thoughts every night before bed. We will be attempting Occlumency."

Hermione— _Persephone_ —gathered the items he'd collected for her and carefully stowed them away in her bag. She stood, but before striding out the office doors, she dropped into a curtsy, bowing her head gracefully. Preoccupied with thoughts of mind magics, she failed to notice that she was falling into the routine of pureblood etiquette. Nor did she see the satisfied glint in Dumbledore's blue eyes as she swept out of the room.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

In _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ ,Dumbledore creates a ring of fire to drive away the inferi. I don't recall whether or not there was any indication that this could have been Fiendfire, but for my purposes, we'll say it was.

 _Miss Manner' Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behaviour_ is indeed a real book, though written by Judith Martin (1982), not Judith Mulciber, as is _The Lady's Guide to Perfect Gentility_ by Emily Thornwell (1857). Edvard Radzinsky is a real author who wrote _the Rasputin Files_ , my favourite biography, which was very well put together and thoroughly disproved most of the folklore involving Rasputin without removing the mystery and intrigue surrounding his life.

 _Nettoyés par le feu_ is French for 'cleansed by fire,' sticking to the pureblood house mottos that typically reference different forms of purity, alluding to a pure line. _Manières de la Bonne Société_ is French for 'Manners of Polite Society.' _Marseille_ is a very wealthy French neighbourhood). _Nouvelle de Soir_ means 'Evening News.'

* * *

 **Interactive Question**

How do you view pureblood culture? What do you think their traditions are? What kind of mannerisms and etiquette would you expect to find within high society Sacred Twenty-eight circles?

* * *

 **Reviews are my muse.**


	5. Friday, August 19th, 1977

**Disclaimers**

This is a nonprofit work of fiction. The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. No infringement is intended.

The views and opinions expressed in this story are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the writer.

* * *

 **The first casualty of war is innocence.**

-SL Buckley, _Platoon_

* * *

 **Friday, August 19th, 1977**

Persephone was beginning to empathize with Harry. She had believed, at the time, that he just wasn't trying hard enough. That his hero complex overcame his sense of self preservation. That his stubborn tenacity, which at times rivalled even her own, was hindering him on successfully learning Occlumency. She knew now that she was wrong.

The headmaster had ceased giving her fair warning. It was a daily assault on her mind. Albus had adopted gorilla warfare tactics, slipping into her thoughts without the least bit of warning.

At first, she hadn't been aware of his rummaging. It had taken her days just to realize that he was flipping through her memories like a Muggle flipped through television channels. She'd wondered if her stress had been impacting her concentration, if her loneliness had been leading her down memory lane at the most inconvenient of times. But eventually, she had come to recognize a presence wholly separate from her own.

He had only managed to view two memories that she had not intended for him today. At this point, it was no wonder that the wizened old wizard had seemed omniscient in her early years. From what he had gleaned from her memories, he was already intimately acquainted with the adventures she and the boys would eventually embark on. And it was nearing 11a.m., which meant it was time to withdraw from the guest suite Dumbledore had assigned to her until the start of term.

The massive castle was still deserted. Excluding meals and occasional trips to the library, she saw no one. And even then, there were never more than a few teachers in attendance. Minerva was in her cottage on the outskirts of the Scottish moors, no doubt pursuing her Muggle lover. Flitwick was competing in a duelling tournament. Professor Sprout spent her time in the greenhouses from dusk til dawn. Horace was on vacation, though Albus hadn't found it necessary to give her further details.

Navigating the moving stairwells, she found the silence distinctly disorienting. It was too quiet. Persephone glanced behind her shoulder, honey coloured eyes rapidly darting over the edge of the railing to the grounds below her. It felt eerily as if someone were watching her. She forced herself to face ahead. No sounds echoed off the walls, no cheerful greetings from the portraits or the wild laughter of misbehaving children. With a pang more violent than she would have thought possible, she recalled the endless hours she had spent in this castle.

If she were to turn left at this corridor, she would be in the exact location where Fred and George had planted their portable swamp in her fifth year, to the endless dismay of Dolores Umbridge. Climbing to the next floor, she identified the torch on which Luna Lovegood's trainers had been attached with a permanent sticking charm in their sixth year, put there by Looney's Ravenclaw tormentors. And just here, a few paces up—

Her foot sunk through the trick step, trapping her foot in place and causing her to stumble, her knees hitting the edge of a stair with a jarring thud. Her breathing came in rapid pants and spots appeared before her vision.

" _Come on, Hermione!" shouted Ron over the noise of the chaos._

" _I can't! My foot—" it was, indeed, stuck tight. Her ginger companion swore under his breath, arranging the basilisk fangs into the crook of one elbow so he could grasp her forearm with his free hand. With a great heave, he pulled her out of the trap._

 _Seconds after she was released, a bright orange curse came into contact with the Grand Staircase, blasting a hole through the stone. A fang came loose from Ron's arms and tumbled downwards, falling through the gaping space below them. She instinctively threw up a shield charm, blocking the next spell that whizzed towards them from the Death Eater not ten paces behind. Poised on the landing, divided only by the opening he himself had created._

 _At his feet lay Marietta Edgecombe. Her eyes were glazed, and her skin unnaturally white. Against her pale forehead ,arranged in ragged, disfiguring scars, was the word 'snitch.' Hermione gagged, only just maintaining their protective barrier as she fought against the bile rising in her throat._

" _We've got to find Harry," Ron insisted desperately, trying to tug her further towards their destinations. But she couldn't move. She was frozen in place._

" _Please, Hermione. There's nothing you can do. We have to go. We have to_ go _." Some part of her identified that she was being spoken to, but it was like someone had cast Petrificus Totalus on her. "Come_ on _, Mione! Miss Glacendres. Persephone. Hermione._ Miss Granger!"

She jolted back to the present, feeling disoriented. Albus Dumbledore's concerned face was a mere foot from her own, leaning down over her prone position. His beard tickled her left ear. "Miss Glacendres?" he inquired delicately. "Are you quite alright?"

Shaking her head, she raised a trembling arm to wipe the sweat from her brow. "I'm sorry, Headmaster. I don't know what's gotten into me. I was just on my way to your office to discuss my weekly progress, and my foot—"

"It's no trouble, child," he said kindly, pulling her with unexpected ease from the trick stair. "You are not typically late, and I thought it might be prudent to fetch you myself."

"What time is it, sir?"

He interlocked their arms, steadying her as he redirected them to whence he'd just come. "If I'm not mistaken, it should be nearing midday." Her mind spun as she tried to process that information. How long had she been splayed so vulnerably? Surely it couldn't have been over an hour.

Once she was seated in one of the fluffy armchairs that had become habitual for their discussions, he offered her a cup of tea. Persephone drank it appreciatively, grateful for the extra sugar. She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd spiked it with calming drought.

"Cockroach cluster?" he asked.

"No thank you, sir." Taking another sip of her tea, she decided that, yes, it was surely doctored. The warmth spread through her, relaxing her muscles and slowing her accelerated breathing.

Dumbledore watched her from over his half-moon spectacles. "Is there, perhaps, anything you wish to tell me?"

She thought of the flashback. Of the sheer terror, and the anxiety precipitating it. Persephone shook her head. "No, sir."

He did not seem satisfied. However, he did not press her. "Very well. You've been moderately successful with your Occlumency visual as of late, and I'm rather impressed with your skill at Legilimency. But this afternoon, we'll be exploring a different method of mind magics. One that I've crafted myself. We will refer to it as _Ostendemency._ "

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

Hermione lived through a war. She's going to have some baggage. As for Marietta Edgecombe, yes, Rowling did state that the 'sneak' jink caused permanent scarring. We don't know if Marietta returns for the Battle of Hogwarts, seeing as she graduated the year prior, nor do we know whether or not she survived the war. But for the purposes of this fic, she died soon before the conclusion of the war.

 _Ostendemency_ is from the Latin Ostende meaning 'show' or Ostendere 'to show.' I took this from the same etymology as Legilimency and Occlumency. Legili is from the Latin Legere "to read, to collect, to choose." Occlumency comes from the Latin Occludere "to close up, to block off" or Occulere which means "to conceal, to cover up, to hide." Mens is Latin for mind, and Mancy is biblically used to mean Divination.

* * *

 **Interactive Question**

Next up is the sorting! I already know what house I'll be putting Hermione in, but where do _you_ think she belongs?

* * *

 **Reviews are my muse.**


	6. Thursday, September 1st, 1977

**Disclaimers**

This is a nonprofit work of fiction. The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. No infringement is intended.

The views and opinions expressed in this story are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the writer.

* * *

 **People seldom change. Only their masks do. It is only our perception of them and the perceptions they have of themselves that actually change.**

-Shannon L. Alder

* * *

 **Thursday, September 1st, 1977**

Persephone had oft wondered what the antechamber off of the Great Hall consisted of. On rare occasions, professors would enter for meals from the door behind their table. Now, gazing at the roaring fireplace that reached far above her head, and the not unsubstantial pot of Floo powder alongside it, she could come to no other conclusion than that it was an arrival destination. Though the circular walls were cluttered with portraits and paintings, seamlessly fitted against the stone despite the curvature, and few of whom she recognized, she doubted someone with the stature of Headmaster Dumbledore could comfortably fit through a portrait hole shorter than she was. However, even Hagrid could emerge comfortably from the towering frame of the hearth.

The muffled sound of the Sorting Hat's customary song could be heard vaguely through the thick wooden door barring her from the masses. She couldn't make out the words.

She tried not to contemplate the spectacle that awaited her. Her original sorting had been a near hatstall, deliberating for four minutes between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. She had found the process disconcerting as a first year. Seeing as she had already read _Hogwarts, A History_ , she'd been fully aware of the hat's instilled ability to perform Legilimency. But knowing now what she did, from decades into the future, to say she was uncomfortable with anyone—any _thing—_ poking around in her head was an understatement.

Abruptly realizing that she was pacing, Persephone approached one of the stuffed armchairs and sat heavily. She forced herself to think about what was really praying on her nerves.

It was inconceivable that she would be able to put off meeting the Marauder's Era students. Her task simply made it an impossibility. That did nothing to still her rapidly beating heart against her chest. How was she to look at a young, lively James Potter with the knowledge that he would be brutally murdered in a few short years? How was she to interact with an adolescent Severus Snape, the intimidating potions master whom she had respected, despised, and more recently come to idolize? How could she temper her disgust of the coward, Peter Pettigrew? People whom she knew from another life, people who were yet to become the adults that had had such a monumental impact on her childhood? Could she contain her preconceptions of them? Should she? Were they now who they would grow to be, or were they merely angst ridden teenagers? Could she, in good conscience, judge them for acts they had yet to commit?

Idly, she fidgeted with the pearl buttons on her mousquetaire gloves. For the first several days that Dumbledore had insisted on her wearing them, she'd felt silly. After all, silk and lace evening gloves weren't something that any sensible woman would pair with a Hogwarts uniform. Yet, she'd very quickly adapted, and even come to enjoy the gentle materials sliding along her wrists and forearms.

The dull noise of the sorting rose to a roar, and she raised her head to look at the now open door leading to the masses of students. This was her cue. The first years had been sorted. _Enter Hermione, stage right,_ she thought. With a final deep breath to collect herself, Persephone rose from her perch and made her way into the cavernous, candle lit Great Hall.

She kept her eyes focused on the Sorting Hat, refusing to lose her last moments of pretending she was still home, in her own time. But Dumbledore's voice cut across the room, immediately reducing conversation to a murmur.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he stated, in a soft tone that somehow managed to sweep from the Head's Table to the double doors. "Tonight, we have the honor of bringing yet another young mind into our fold. A priorly privately tutored individual has come to complete her final year of study with us. Please welcome to Hogwarts Miss Persephone Glacendres."

Polite clapping broke out amongst the houses and Persephone turned to meet Dumbledore's twinkling eyes. He inclined his head subtly towards the Sorting Hat and seat, where Professor Flitwick had halted mid-stride, midway through the process of removing them. Instead, he placed both careworn hat and aging stool back down in the centre of the raised dais. Watching her curiously, the short, goblin-like man scurried back to his place at the head table.

She allowed herself to examine the hall as she walked slowly, fighting the urge to let loose her hair and hide her face behind it. Her peers seemed inquisitively friendly as necks craned to study her. Her eyes swept the Slytherin table, and she recognized, with an unpleasant jolt, many of the students sitting amongst their housemates. She fought to keep her expression composed and quickly averted her stare, looking for a less disturbing place to settle it.

She found it in a startlingly handsome boy at Gryffindor table, one watching her with a slightly calculating look, and a smile playing around the edges of his mouth. He was seated next to a slender boy with mousy brown hair and across from—

—she knew that face. The messy black hair spiking up all over the place, the easy grin, the intensity. _Except, of course, his eyes,_ she thought, echoing the words of so many teachers, Ministry employees, and other adults from her childhood. No, she wouldn't entertain that train of thought.

But now she was at the stool, and had no time to look for others in the crowd, even if she had desired to do so. This time, there was no McGonagall to lower the hat onto her head. She did not have to climb onto the chair as she had as an eleven year old. Instead, she was embarrassingly aware of how her legs bent awkwardly to accommodate the short seat. Placing the hat atop her carefully coiffed hair, it sat snugly, whereas it last slipped over her ears and covered her eyes.

 _Miss... Glacendres, is it?_ The voice of the hat echoed in her mind, eliciting a throaty chuckle. Persephone was too distracted by the students watching her. She would have preferred the illusion of privacy it would have presented if the brim reached down to hide her from the crowd. She debated closing her eyes.

 _I see we've crossed paths before. Or should I say, we will cross paths again?_

She flattened her tongue against the roof of her mouth, locking her jaw in irritation. _Could we not?_ She internally responded. _I'd rather we skip the pleasantries and paradoxes._

The hat seemed to sniff in annoyance. _Touchy, are we? No need for that. It was merely an observation. It's not every day I get to look into a mind quite like this. A fine mind, indeed. One of the best I've seen. But your sense of loyalty and your courage, my goodness, yes. So strongly developed!_

Everyone was staring. Of course they were staring. She tried another approach. _Can we please get this over with? I feel like a gringwart goff on exhibit. I've already been placed in Gryffindor once; to go back wouldn't exactly be beneficial to my cause. Infiltrating the Death Eaters as a lion would be needlessly difficult. Perhaps Ravenclaw?_

She had the distinct impression that the hat was shaking it's head. A subtle twist upon her scalp, back and forth. So much for the effort she put into taming her frizzy ringlets. _No, no. Once, you may have been a Gryffindor. And I won't deny you'd make a formidable Ravenclaw. But that was the girl, not the woman. Besides, you intend to ingratiate yourself among the students of Salazar. Would it not suit your intentions to be in the depths of the snake's den?_

 _I can't be a Slytherin,_ she thought reflexively. _I'm Muggleborn._

 _Ah, but are you? The Glacendres family has an impeccable line. The house of Slytherin has never accepted a Muggleborn, yet that is no longer what you are. You do not lack ambition, and you are—were—the cleverest witch of the age. And so very ruthless._

She blushed. Images flashed through her mind, though not of her own accord. Setting aflame Professor Snape's robes. Poisoning cupcakes to present to Crabbe and Goyle. Arranging for Harry to set off fireworks amongst combustible potions ingredients as she slipped into the Professor's private stores. Confunding McLaggen during Quidditch tryouts. Sending Umbridge off to the centaurs, knowing their prerogative for sexual assault.

"Get off the stool, squib!" yelled a voice from the Slytherin table. She had officially reached the five minute mark. She was a hatstall. It only hardened her resolve.

 _Do it,_ she thought viciously. It would suit her purposes, indeed. It would be a private victory, infiltrating the pureblood domain. Besides, it would make it so much easier to win their trust. If she were to commit to this facade, why shouldn't she cling to any advantage available to her?

 _Then it'd better be_ , and aloud, for all of Hogwarts to hear, " _SLYTHERIN!_ "

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

Come on, I know you saw that coming.

The room Hermione is waiting in prior to the sorting is the antechamber of the Great Hall, located behind the teacher's table and to the right. This is where the Triwizard Champions were taken directly after the Goblet of Fire chose the representatives for each school. The room contains a large fireplace and many portraits, including the painting of the Fat Lady's gossiping friend, Violet. (Goblet of Fire, Chapter 17).

A hatstall is someone who takes longer than five minutes to be sorted. According to Pottermore, this is 'an exceptionally long time for the Sorting Hat to deliberate.'

If you read this fic prior to the revamp in June of 2017, please note that from here on out there are significant alterations to the story line.

* * *

 **Interactive Question**

Why do you think Pettigrew betrayed the Potters?

* * *

 **Reviews are my muse.**


	7. Thursday, September 1st, 1977 - Part II

**Disclaimers**

This is a nonprofit work of fiction. The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. No infringement is intended.

The views and opinions expressed in this story are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the writer.

 **Important Author's Announcement!**

For those of you who have favorited this story prior to today (Thursday, June 1st, 2017), you'll notice that this update is a portion of what was previously _Chapter Three: Hogwarts, a Hierarchy_. This fanfiction, formerly known as _The Life & Lies of Hermione Granger_, now retitled as _The Complexities of Human Nature_ , is undergoing major reconstruction. The most notable difference is in the formatting. Whereas chapters were once about 3k words, they are now being posted in drabble-like increments, typically one scene at a time, organized in (mostly) chronological order. I would very strongly recommend starting from the beginning, as I've added some details that, in my opinion, really add depth to the characters, as well as foreshadowing. At this point in time, the changes aren't so extreme that they'll hamper your understanding of the story, but in a few updates' time I will be making drastic alterations to the content. Please see my profile for more details.

 **Don't play with the Devil,  
He always cheats.**

 **Thursday, September 1st, 1977 - Part II**

The slow clap from the Slytherins seemed more like an insult than anything else. Persephone wasn't sure whether to laugh or set fire to table. In the end, she simply slid off the stool and placed the hat back atop it. Smirking at her new house, she stepped down from the dais and walked through the center isle alongside the Ravenclaws. Few of the Sacred Twentyeight were currently in attendance at Hogwarts, due to the results of inbreeding and infertility. But as she passed Regulus Black, she was careful to catch his eye and incline her head fractionally, acknowledging his status. She couldn't help but feel pleased as he returned the gesture, albeit with a calculated gleam in his coffee coloured eyes.

Persephone had been observant enough in her past life to have been aware of the class system used by the house of Salazar. Her recent knowledge of pureblood etiquette had only heightened that awareness, and given her more insight into it. She understood, now, that their table was not only arranged by year, but also by blood and social status. Of course, there were exceptions, though they were few and far between, and usually involved betrothals or politics.

The seventh years were at the end nearest the double doors, just as they had been in her time. She assumed it had something to do with convenience. The shortest walk to meals, the furthest from the staff to avoid their conversations being overheard. At the very last section of the table were those from the purest lines. A few she recognized, but most she did not.

Not that it particularly mattered. From the moment she had been sorted, Persephone had known immediately what she intended to do to assert her position within this house. Stopping at her destination, she noticed that the seventh years had gone deathly silent. There was a slightly discomfiting air to the quiet; something oppressive, as if they were anxiously anticipating where she'd establish herself. But they also seemed to be steadfastly attempting to ignore her, stoically gazing at one another and refusing to validate her presence. So with a deliberate sneer, she directed her attention to the falsely golden-blond asian boy who sat on the very edge of the bench. Clearing her throat, she did her best imitation of Draco Malfoy at his haughtiest.

"Excuse me, but I think you're in my seat."

She imagined you could have heard a pin drop, despite the fact that all students not in the immediate vicinity were clearly unaware of the power struggle taking place. She could hear, as if from a distance, a group of youths laughing from the Ravenclaw table. The Great Hall was in it's usual first meal uproar. Yet it was as if these few students were in a bubble, removed from the rest.

In an irksomely slow manner, the boy turned to glance up at her. One eyebrow rose sardonically. She noted, from the corner of her eye, that the young man sitting across from whom she was addressing was watching them with a decisively malicious expression.

From the asian's immediate right, a corkscrewed brunette laughed.

"Terribly sorry," said the girl, in a sickly sweet voice. It reminded Persephone of Bellatrix. "I believe you're mistaken. _Avery_ is exactly where he should be."

She'd pointedly stressed his surname. But the Glacendres girl had devotedly studied the British family lines, under Dumbledore's tutoring. The Avery family history was long indeed, dating back to the Évreux family of Navarra, Spain, who ruled from 1328 to 1441. Which, coincidentally, was when King Charles II of Navarra married Joan of France—a muggle. Their halfblood daughter, Joanna, went on to marry King Henry IV of England, who was a pureblood wizard. Hence beginning the English line, eventually intermarrying once more with the Évreux cousins, who adapted the surname of Avery upon their relocation.

"Joan de Navarre avait du sang contaminé," Persephone shot back, disdain dripping from her tone. "The Évreux line may date back to the Dark Ages, but the Avery line dates only to the Renaissance. The Glacendres family has been pure since Classical Antiquity." She bent down, slipping her left hand fastidiously into her pocket as she did so and gripping her vinewood wand. Her cherry red lips curled up into a mocking half-smile as she met his glare. "You are in _my_ seat."

If there was a single way to get under a Pureblood's skin, it was to draw attention to a fault in their genealogy. Their hierarchy depended solely on their purity, and she had, for all intents and purposes, just usurped the current king of Hogwarts. The fury on his face was immensely satisfying. And the hex that came flying at her was expected. The direction it came from, on the other hand, was not.

While she had been watching Avery, she had failed to observe the boy across from him. But after a year on the run, looking over her shoulder for snatchers, and the chaos that was the Battle of Hogwarts, her instincts were preternatural. Eighteen months ago she would not have been able to block the bright orange curse that zipped through the air. Defense had never been her strongest subject. But Persephone Glacendres had experienced war first hand, and her aptitude far surpassed anything these teenaged, Death Eater wannabes could throw at her. For the time being, at least.

The light collided with her Shield Charm, causing the usually invisible barrier to flare electric blue where they made contact before the hex fizzled out entirely.

Part of her had hoped it would come to this. The real Persephone had, indeed, been a squib, though that was never confirmed by sources outside of her own family. She knew that she would have to prove herself, and quickly, if she expected any peace from potential perpetual persecutors in Slytherin. They would not take kindly to someone unable to perform magic, no matter how pristine their bloodline. It was important for her to display her strength as soon as possible.

Her head snapped to the side, focus zeroing in on the opposite side of the table. If she hadn't been reeling in rage, she might have noticed how attractive he was. With spiked up sable hair and striking blue-green eyes, a semitic nose, and a full mouth, he was certainly pleasing enough. But all of this was overlooked as she softly pressed the tip of her wand to his clear complexioned forehead.

"Persephone Glacendres," she said in clipped tones, extending her right hand out to him, while simultaneously increasing the pressure against his skull. "How do you do?"

There was no hesitation from him, except the briefest flicker of his gaze towards Avery. His wand dropped with a clatter onto his plate, and he reached out to grasp her hand firmly.

"Jaxton Mulciber," he replied quietly. "Pleasure to meet you."

Removing the threat from his face, she smiled. "The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur Mulciber."

When she turned back around, Avery had vacated the place of honor, leaving behind a space for her to sit. She wasn't surprised to see that he was nowhere in sight. Presumably, he'd left the feast entirely. Though whether that was from anger, humiliation, or fear was yet to be seen. Darting her stare up towards the teachers, she saw that Dumbledore was watching her, the approval behind his half moon spectacles blatant even from the distance. She settled comfortably onto the bench, knowing full well that it was the equivalent of a throne. Funny to think that they'd just apotheosized a Mudblood.

A round of introductions ensued. In was during this inauguration that she finally noticed black orbs examining her out of a pallid face, nearly hidden behind lank curtains of onyx hair. It seemed that she had caught the attention of Severus Snape. She carefully suppressed her pride, burying it deep beneath her Occlumency walls and meeting his blank stare with an impassive facade of her own. She dipped her chin minutely, and was rewarded by the fractional widening of his eyes from the acknowledgment. Deeming that enough for the time being, she turned to heap what she could of the dinner onto her plate before it disappeared. It seemed that the initial phase of her plan was going off without a hitch. But this was only the beginning, and she knew that everything beyond this point would be infinitely more complicated.

She had always enjoyed a challenge.

 **Author's Notes**

Most of the characters from this chapter, and the next chapter, are canon, though I did have to add first names to some of the surnames.

 _Joan de Navarre avait du sang contaminé_ means 'Joan of Navarra had dirty blood' in French. As for the Navarra family, that is all absolutely true, excluding the bits about their blood purity and being wizards/witches and whatnot. That is actually how the Avery surname came into being, adapting from Évreux. From Navarra to France, and from France to England.

The Dark Ages were from 476-800AD, whereas the Renaissance was from 1300-1700. So if Joan of France was a muggle, the Avery family can't be older than her daughter, the halfblood, and cannot be pureblood again until the third generation of magical lineage. Classical Antiquity dates from 700BC to 600AD. So if the Glacendres family has record of their line until then, with only purity, their family has been pure for over a millenia longer than the Avery family. I understand that being able to map genealogy back that far is pretty much impossible, but it fit my needs, so I went with it.

 **Interactive Question**

How do you think pureblood society generally treats squibs? Do you think they're disowned, or just disdained? I'll expand on Hermione's (my) opinion on this later in the story, but I'd love to hear your thoughts on the matter.

 **Reviews are my muse.**


	8. Thursday, September 1st, 1977 - Part III

**Disclaimers**

This is a nonprofit work of fiction. The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. No infringement is intended.

The views and opinions expressed in this story are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the writer.

* * *

 **It is absurd to divide people into good or bad.  
People are either charming or tedious.**

-Oscar Wilde

* * *

 **Thursday, September 1st, 1977 - Part III**

The evening passed uneventfully. The Common Room was much different from Gryffindor, but the dormitories were somewhat similar. With the exception of the colours, of course. And the stone walls. And the underwater view from the windows. And the wonderful, blessed fireplaces.

 _Who am I kidding?_ Mused Persephone, as she hung up a pale blue robe. The Slytherin dormitory was nothing like the one she'd spent her previous life in. Yes, the four poster was a twin, with the same intricate details as her old one, but in place of plain, chipped cherry wood it was painted black, polished to reflect the flickering lavender flames of the hearth. Her trunk rested at the foot of it, yet it was nearly empty now, as it was not her sole item for storage. Aside her bed was a bookshelf, doubling as a nightstand, with a small, ornate crystal lamp atop it. The books she'd acquired from Dumbledore, their shopping trips, and her inheritance were already carefully aligned by category, author, and title. The spines were pulled forward to rest a fraction of an inch from the front, just as she'd organized them in her childhood bedroom.

Her living quarters were infinitely more spacious than they'd been in the tower; this was probably due to the vast labyrinth that made up the dungeons, in comparison to the confined spaces she'd occupied priorly. A large wardrobe matched her bed frame and bookshelf, as did a sturdy desk with ample drawer space. _Her_ desk was the only one positioned with a window view, and green light filtered in from behind the drapes. It would take time for her to adjust to the phenomenon of grindylows and merpeople swimming passed the glass.

She would have expected deep emerald to be the most prominent colour in the decor, but there was little of it to be seen. Aside from a Slytherin crest on the back of the door, and a thick, soft rug on the stone floor, the dominant hues were shimmering silver and pale honeydew.

The curtains around her bed and hanging before the windows were gray, with the faintest hint of a sparkle. Her comforter and pillows had accents of the same hue, with woven threads in swirling patterns atop a light, celery tinted material.

She glanced up from unpacking as the door to their private bathroom opened.

"Is that a dagger?"

Lucy, one of her dorm mates, was looking at the item Persephone had placed next to her bedside lamp. It was goblin-wrought, no larger than the span of her splayed hand. It would be perfect as a boot knife, which was precisely how she intended to use it.

"It was my papa's," she murmured quietly, not meeting her gaze.

There was an awkward silence before the other girl crossed the room to change into her pyjamas. The tense atmosphere was soon disturbed by Persephone's choked gasp when Lucinda shamelessly dropped her damp towel to the ground. One of the young ladies laughed at her response, but she wasn't sure which of them it was.

Her fellow seventh year females were amusing, to say the very least. More amenable than Parvati and Lavender, to be sure, and overall, to her great satisfaction, rather pleasant company. She rapidly discovered that she was indisputably better fitted to her new housemates. Her welcome was made clear when the other girls began referring to her as _Seph_ , which, at the very least, was better than their initial attempt to call her _Percy_.

Lucinda Talkalot certainly lived up to her name, though her gabbing was anything but aimless. She seemed generally unaware of her beauty, and very down to earth. Lucy had an easy girl next door vibe. Somewhat tomboyish, with a proclivity for Quidditch and an almost incessant need to make commentary on everything around her. Whether the topic of conversation was gossip, school work, or politics, she was eager to discuss it. Opinionate indeed, if not particularly well versed. Her main engrossment seemed to be the opening for a new Quidditch captain, seeing as the prior team leader, Emma Vanity, had graduated the year before.

Which led Persephone to her next roommate. Amelia Vanity, Emma's younger sister, was the girl who had been sitting next to Avery before his abrupt departure. Whereas Emma had gone on to join the Holyhead Harpies, Amie's ambition lay elsewhere. She was everything Persephone had ever imagined a pureblood heiress to be. Overly confident, with a snappish wit and an inclination to belittle those surrounding her. Her corkscrew, deep chocolate curls were glossy and gorgeous, contrasting with the bluest eyes Persephone had ever seen. To Seph's great delectation, Amelia also seemed hellbent on brown nosing her way into Persephone's good graces.

After Miss Vanity was Miss Vane. Velda Vane, to be precise, who would eventually go on to be some relative, most likely an aunt, of the dreaded Romilda Vane. She was cunning, she was curt, and she was quiet. Seph suspected that she would be the most problematic of her new associates, with the exception of, perhaps, Avery. Her dark auburn hair and sleet grey eyes were something to be envied. She seemed to keep mostly to herself, and spent the majority of the evening indulging in torrid tabloids and truly atrocious fashion magazines.

And while on the topic of journalism, that begs an opening for Persephone's final companion. Cassidy Skeeter was everything that her older sister was not. She was convivial and vivacious, constantly upbeat, with a laugh that was completely contagious. She was sociable, if somewhat prim and proper. Though she did share with Rita a tendency to gossip, and probably to embellish her stories as well, she seemed disinclined to speak poorly of anyone, and her humor was usually at her own expense.

By and by, they were all very different on the surface. Below that, however, they each harbored dreams of being wealthy socialites married to successful men, albeit with different preferences for social circles. They had no real interest in academics, nor in careers. It was increasingly apparent that they did not speak to men unless spoken to, nor did they question a man's authority or superiority. Each had expressed some form of awe at Seph's actions towards Avery and Mulciber, ranging from consternation to outright horror between them. Carefree as they were behind closed doors, these were subservient women.

And if there was one thing Persephone Glacendres was _not_ , it was subservient.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

This was mostly a filler chapter. If you hated it, that's fine, but I needed to write it lol. Something mundane to get me back into the groove of this story.

Most characters that I made up have ties to canon characters, though some of those are little known. The following characters are improvised: Cassidy Skeeter (younger sister to Rita Skeeter, journalist), Amelia Vanity (younger sister to Emma Vanity, who was the Slytherin Quidditch captain until she graduated the prior year), Velda Vane (aunt of Romilda Vane). First names were provided for Marcellus Avery, Jaxton Mulciber, and Damien Wilkes (Damien being a nod to Where Your Treasure Is by Zeegrindylows). Evan Rosier, Lucinda Talkalot, and Severus Snape are fully canon characters—feel free to check on Harry Potter Wikia. And that makes up the Slytherin seventh years!

* * *

 **Interactive Question**

I've gotten some negative feedback from reviewers on a couple of things. The first is my habit of being excessively descriptive. Unfortunately, this is just my style of writing, most likely due to reading too many classic novels (*cough* _Jane Austen_ *cough*). The second is the 'introduction' page. For the latter, I'd like to hear your opinions, because I'm seriously considering scrapping it. Keep or delete?

* * *

 **Reviews are my muse.**


	9. Friday, September 2nd, 1977

**Disclaimers**

This is a nonprofit work of fiction. The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. No infringement is intended.

The views and opinions expressed in this story are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the writer.

* * *

 **Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.**

-Jane Austen, _Emma_

* * *

 **Friday, September 2nd, 1977**

Walking into her first class of the 1977 school year was like falling into a pensieve. Professor Slughorn's classroom was identical to what it had been in her sixth year of schooling. From the overly ornate desk, to the bubbling potions at the front of the room, to the Slytherins and Gryffindors separated down the middle. Only this time, she found herself in silver and green.

It seemed that most of the tables had already established partnerships. Standing in the center of the aisle as everyone else found their places, she weighed her options.

The Gryffindor side consisted primarily of people whom she could identify, despite not having yet been introduced to them. In the rear of the room were the Marauders. Sirius Black was lounging with his feet up on the table and his hands behind his head, the front legs of his chair several inches off the ground. Next to him was James, with his elbows on the edge of the desk, leaning forward and speaking in hushed tones to Remus Lupin, who sat directly ahead of him and was straddling his chair whilst facing his friends. Peter Pettigrew was beside Remus, though Persephone intentionally let her eyes skim over him. The next duo she didn't know, but could hazard a guess. The two were holding hands, sitting a bit closer together than propriety dictated. The girl had long, wheat coloured blonde hair, pulled up into a rather careless ponytail. The boy's hair was mousy brown, in slight disarray, with his Gryffindor tie askew. She suspected, from the set of the boys jaw, and the cheekbones of the girl, that these were Alice and Frank Longbottom. Or, they would be. And at the head of the class sat Lily Evans, whose dark red hair hid her face from view as she leaned over her textbook, scribbling furiously in the margins. None of them payed Persephone any mind.

On the Slytherin side, at the farthest back, sat Jaxton Mulciber and Marcellus Avery, the former of which was watching her with a smug expression, and the latter of whom glared daggers. At the table ahead of them were two other boys, whom, after listening to her dorm mates gossip all evening, were surely the other two seventh year males, Damien Wilkes and Evan Rosier; they seemed to be conversing over something hidden beneath the table, less sneaky than they clearly thought they were. Second from the front sat Amie, who smiled apologetically at Persephone, before turning back to her companion, Velda Vane, who was steadfastly ignoring Seph. And at the very front sat Severus Snape, alone, staring at the wisps of steam swirling from the potions on display.

It was a difficult decision to make. Both available spaces were at the front of the room, which Persephone preferred. To sit with the Gryffindors would be an affront to her house, and would likely irk Severus Snape, who could very well take it as a personal offense. Yet, to sit with Snape would mean conversing with him, which she wasn't entirely sure she was ready to do. A part of her was afraid he would demean her for her lack of innate potions ability, so meager in comparison to his preternatural instinct on the subject.

She had spent her Hogwarts career trying to impress that man, and despite everything that happened, she still felt an ingrained desire to do so. He was the only professor who never acknowledged her talent, never complimented or praised her. Perhaps this was a second chance to earn his regard.

She took her seat just as Professor Slughorn entered the room, and the students immediately went silent. She wondered whether that was due to her choice in partners, or because of the presence of their teacher.

"Welcome, welcome," he began jovially, seating himself at his desk with the small cauldrons of pre-made potions. He was not quite as obese as she remembered him, though still rather overweight, with a receding hairline. The gaudy velvet waistcoat and the prominent, gray walrus mustache, on the other hand, were just as she recalled. His bulging eyes squinted around the room. "I see we've lost quite a few since last year, but that is only to be expected. And it seems, as well, that we've gained one."

Settling his gaze on Persephone, he smiled toothily. His teeth were crooked. "Glad to have a new addition to my house, Miss Glacendres, was it?"

Seph simply nodded, the barest hint of what she hoped was a shy smile gracing her features. By the greedy gleam in his hazel eyes, he knew the surname well. But he didn't ask about her lineage. No doubt he'd be recruiting her for his club soon.

"Welcome, indeed," he offered, before continuing on with his monologue. "For your N.E.W.T. levels, I will expect your utmost attention. Detail is essential at this stage of your education, and a minute slip can be catastrophic. We will be working with highly toxic ingredients, brewing concoctions with the combustible potential to eviscerate everything within the room. I sincerely hope you are ready to take these lessons seriously.

"While I have been lenient in the past, that will no longer stand. Any student whom I do not deem fully committed and responsible—" at this, he looked at the Marauders pointedly, "—will find themselves dropped from the class. Do we have an understanding?"

A chorus of 'yes, sirs' erupted from the pupils. Horace seemed satisfied with this, for his next action was to dramatically gesture to the potions on his desk. With a flourish, he rested his palm above the swirling steam of the first. "Now, who can identify this potion?"

She was startled to note that Severus Snape did not raise his hand. He continued to stare at the cauldrons. She could not see behind her, and therefor was unsure of whether anyone else volunteered, but both she and her partner's hands shot into the air with equal speed. Persephone turned to examine Lily, who had finally raised her head from her textbook and was doing a decent impression of spirit fingers, practically out of her seat. They met stares briefly, and Seph couldn't help but notice a competitive gleam in that emerald coloured gaze.

"Ah. Miss Glacendres, I should think."

"Amortentia," she answered confidently.

"And what do you know about Amortentia, Miss Glacendres?"

"Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in the world. It is distinctive for its mother-of-pearl sheen, and steam rises from the potion in spirals. Amortentia smells different to each person, according to what attracts them."

"As an example, what do you smell?" he asked her curiously.

"I think that's rather personal, sir, don't you?" she retorted slyly, her brows arching.

Professor Slughorn laughed, his chins bouncing ever so slightly as he did so. "As asset to our house, indeed! Tell me, can you identify any of the others?"

From her peripheral vision, she could see Lily giving her a death stare, hand still reaching towards the ceiling and almost standing now. Seph suspected that, despite Severus being in the classroom, Miss Evans was the star pupil. Apparently she didn't appreciate anyone stealing her glory.

"I can identify all of them, sir," Seph told him smugly. She'd only intended to get in Slughorn's good graces. She really hadn't meant to show off, but with the girl next to her, it was hard not to. "I've even brewed a couple."

The old man seemed beside himself with glee. "Do tell, then."

"Well," she began hesitantly. She really didn't want to make a spectacle of this. However, it certainly couldn't hurt to gain her Head of House's appreciation. Making a split second decision, she continued. "The last potion, on the other end there, is the Draught of Living Death. It brings upon its drinker a very powerful sleep that can last indefinitely, slowing the pulse to virtual nonexistence and often mistaken for expiry. If the dose is even slightly misjudged, the drinker's heart will cease altogether. The key ingredients are wormwood, asphodel, and, coincidentally, valerian root, which is often used by muggles as a natural sedative. It's identified by its lavender colour, a sulfurous smell, and only used in the direst of circumstances, such as by Healers to induce a magical coma.

"To its left is Felix Felicis, also known as Liquid Luck, which I believe makes it rather self explanatory. It is easily identified by its golden, thick texture, like molten metal, though it is cool to the touch. It is meant to be used sparingly, however, as it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence if taken in excess. Felix Felicis is highly toxic in large quantities. It is very difficult to make, disastrous if brewed wrong, and requires six months to stew before it is ready to be consumed. It's also banned in all organized competitions."

Persephone paused to bite her lip, debating whether or not to add her personal experiences with it. It couldn't really _hurt_ anything, as long as she was vague about it.

"I had the great privilege of ingesting it, once," there was an incredulous snort behind her, which she chose to ignore, "though only a fraction of a full dose, mind you. It would most easily be described as a sensation of all consuming peace and self-assurance, as if you could do no wrong..." realizing that she had trailed off, she collected herself before going on.

"And the final potion, second to the right, is incomplete Polyjuice. I say incomplete because as of yet no essence of another has been added to it, obvious by its bubbling, mud-like appearance, which will change colour upon culmination—the colours vary. It takes one month to brew, and one dose lasts only an hour. Polyjuice will change your appearance, and a strong, perfectly crafted batch will change your voice, as well.

"I have ingested this potion several times. The first time I brewed it myself, though I had the misfortune of adding a cat hair—in my defense, I was only twelve at the time, and it worked quite well for my companions, so it was done correctly. Miserable experience, that was, and took ages to reverse. It's important to note that non-human transformations will not reverse automatically. Nor can it be used on non or half-humans.

"As for the subsequent exploits with it, I would describe it as generally unpleasant. Indigestion is, perhaps, the best way to describe it, though the sensation is truly incomparable. The skin feels as if it's melting like hot wax, the speed in which your bones grow is painful, and all aspects are uncomfortable. I really wouldn't recommend it."

It took her a moment to realize that the entirety of the room had fallen into a tense silence. There was a tangible combination of awe and skepticism. Lily Evans looked like she might implode. Professor Slughorn's pudgy face seemed frozen, mouth gaping. Willing herself not to blush, she added, as if an afterthought, "I was home schooled. It was tedious. And boredom brings mischief." Shrugging as nonchalantly as she could, she placed her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, widening her eyes into a passable simile of innocence.

Finally, behind her, a deep baritone laugh reverberated through the dungeon classroom. A slow clap began from the Gryffindors in the rear. The Slytherins seemed to be sizing her up, conflicted as to whether or not they ought believe her. Persephone allowed her gaze to slide to the side, lingering on Severus Snape, who met her stare blandly. She couldn't read his expression.

"Well," spluttered Slughorn, "Fifteen points to Slytherin. Quite versed in these potions, I must say. Wonderful. Just wonderful." He seemed stuck somewhere between elated and weary. Crystallized Pineapples were probably in order. "All correct, of course. And today, one of you will be lucky enough to win a single dose of Liquid Luck. The student who brews the most flawless Draught of Living Death will be highly rewarded, indeed. Please open your textbooks to page two hundred and eleven." Standing up, he made his way over to the blackboard, tapping it twice with his wand. A timer appeared on the board in white, already ticking down. "You have one hour. You may begin."

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

I chose to use the same curriculum from the Trio's sixth year for several reasons. The first is because the education system usually gets more intensive as the years go on. For example, what my daughter is learning in kindergarten is what I was learning in second grade. Also, because I believe that Snape, despite his many flaws as a teacher, was an expert in his field. I suspect that he taught his students ahead of curriculum, regardless of their shortcomings as a class. Lastly, because it suited my purposes. Many of Hermione's responses are directly from the Half-Blood Prince.

* * *

 **This is the seating arrangement:**

 _Left: Gryffindor  
_ Lily Evans & Persephone Glacendres  
Alice Blishwick & Frank Longbottom  
Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew  
Sirius Black & James Potter

 _Right: Slytherin  
_ Severus Snape  
Amelia Vanity & Velda Vane  
Damien Wilkes & Evan Rosier  
Jaxton Mulciber & Marcellus Avery

* * *

 **Interactive Question**

How do you imagine Severus, Lily, the Marauders, and others in their year?

* * *

 **Reviews are my muse.**


	10. Friday, September 2nd, 1977 - Part II

**Disclaimers**

This is a nonprofit work of fiction. The Harry Potter Universe, in its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. No infringement is intended.

The views and opinions expressed in this story are solely those of the characters being portrayed and do not necessarily express the views and opinions of the writer.

* * *

 **Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.**

-Niccolò Machiavelli

* * *

 **Friday, September 2nd, 1977 - Part II**

By the time Professor Slughorn was finished speaking, she was already out of her chair, making her way to the supply cabinet. As much as she had despised the Half-Blood Prince's book, she had studied it diligently behind Harry's back. It wasn't that the book itself frustrated her; it was that Harry, who was, at best, a decent brewer, suddenly had higher marks than her. Not because of any real talent, or research, or even sheer dumb luck, but because he was using superior instructions. It was like cheating off of the brainiest kid in class. Which would usually have been her.

She didn't like being second best. It seemed that she and Lily Evans had that in common.

She had never fully trusted the book, and therefor never attempted to apply it to any of her potions, regardless of Harry's results. But now, she knew who it belonged to. She had memorized those recipes. And, if she wasn't mistaken, she had the upper hand. Because it was not a seventeen year old Snape who had taught her. It was a fully grown, and exponentially more experienced wizard that had ingrained in her proper technique. She had a feeling he had made discoveries later in life, and she suspected he had taught them to his students. Some of them, at the very least.

Persephone was the first to reach the supplies, gathering everything that she needed and meticulously choosing the best of each specimen. She and Lily had been closest to the stores, seated at the front left, and the redhead was hot on her trail. But not before the Slytherin had time to mix the remaining African sea salt with citric acid. It wouldn't create a negative reaction; only render the salt less potent. Just as Seph grabbed the last of her needed items, Evans began rifling through the shelves.

In her sixth year, Horace had informed them all that only one of his students had successfully brewed a perfect Draught of Living Death within the one hour allotment. He had never specified just who that was, though they had all, at the time, assumed it to be Severus Snape. She intended to make sure that didn't happen.

Hurrying back to her table, she retrieved her personal Potions Kit and carefully aligned each item in the order it would be needed.

Beginning with the two hundred and fifty fluid ounces of water and five ounces of salt, she combined them in a beaker, then left them to sit for the necessary five minutes to properly dissolve, careful not to shake it. Her Gryffindor partner was sliding into place beside her as Seph carefully ignited a fire beneath her cauldron, adjusting it to a medium flame. This was the first point at which she would be using her advanced knowledge from Snape, unsure of whether or not he had learned this particular trick before or after graduation.

The instructions said to shake her vial of moondew, but instead, she swirled it carefully within its containment, creating a whirlpool like effect until it was sufficiently mixed. She carefully measured out twelve fluid ounces, pouring it in to set as the base. As it warmed to a simmer, she used her graduated cylinder to obtain forty fluid ounces of wormwood. It was important to complete this stage before the handles of the cauldron became too hot. Gripping one with her left hand, she used her right to add ten drops of the infusion, then tilted it again towards her to add the remaining ten drops. When she released it, the pewter handles were just beginning to burn her fingers.

Five minutes had passed now, and her salt solution was ready. Slowly adding it, she simultaneously lowered the flame to low. Under no circumstances could it come to a full boil. The potion darkened to a smooth, blackcurrant-colour.

Directions called for three valerian roots, chopped into two centimeter squares. However, Persephone had learned in her third year that the skin of the roots was less effective. Therefor, she used four roots, discarding all pieces with remnants of the outer layer, and ending with a total of thirteen cubes. Three of these she placed in a clean beaker with eighty fluid ounces of distilled water. This, like the salt solution, needed time to settle.

The juice of twelve sliced sopophorous beans, it said. She smirked, thinking of Harry, as she used her silver dagger to crush thirteen before adding the juice.

Still needing time for the valerian root solution to complete, she risked a glance around the class. Most weren't far behind her, though those on the sopophorous beans were having difficulty cutting them. One person, however, was far behind.

Severus Snape was examining his salt solution with frustration. From the discarded beakers on his desk, this was not the first time he had attempted it. She knew that citric acid was soluble in water, but it made the liquid much cloudier than the african salt would have. He was clearly aware of this.

As if feeling her eyes on him, he whirled around, searching for the source of disruption. When their gazes met, he showed his first sign of true emotion to her. Outright suspicion and irritation. Seph offered him an apologetic smile, before mouthing 'sorry.' His pallid face flushed when he realized that she was responsible.

Finally adding seven drops of the reduced valerian liquid, careful not to allow any fragments of the actual root, she heard murmuring behind her.

"I think it's supposed to be black," whispered the girl, whom she had already decided was most assuredly Alice.

"It's almost black," said Frank in confusion.

"More of a deep, midnight blue, I'd say."

Counting out seven counterclockwise turns, followed by a clockwise, she bit back any sense of guilt she might have otherwise felt for the intentional sabotage. The majority of the class never would have brewed a successful Draught of Living Death, anyways. Within just a few repetitions, her potion had turned pale periwinkle, before becoming clear as water. If it weren't for the sulfurous smell, she could have mistaken it for veritaserum.

By the time she had added her seven squares of valerian root, her fifty ounces of powdered root of asphodel, and the paste she'd made from pickled sloth brains, it was a perfect shade of lilac, and she had three minutes left. She extinguished her flame and used her sleeve to wipe the sweat off her brow. It was shockingly warm in the usually frigid dungeons; no doubt from all of the fumes.

At this point, Slughorn was making his rounds, currently leaning over Amie's cauldron and shaking his head. As he straightened up, she timidly raised her hand to get his attention. Walking over to her, he glanced down curiously, and promptly did a double take.

"My dear!" he exclaimed, canted down to closer inspect it. "A perfect specimen. I daresay one small drop would kill us all!" He was, of course, exaggerating, as he was wont to do. It was a sleeping draught—a powerful one, to be sure, but not a poison. If a single drop were to kill a man, the potion would in all reality have been incorrectly brewed. But she accepted it as the praise it was.

"However," he continued, "we must wait until time is up. I have some rather stupendous students in here, who may rival you yet." He winked at her, clearly proud to be boasting about his pupils.

However, when the clock on the chalkboard flashed red, he was disappointed. "Miss Evans," he sighed, looking at her final product, "I do not believe you allowed your salt solution to sufficiently dissolve. A commendable effort, regardless." Lily's disappointment was bad, but not nearly as bad as the resolute acceptance on Severus's face when Horace approached him.

Slughorn didn't say anything to him. Just furrowed his bushy brows in disbelief. Snape shot her a glare, which she pointedly raised a brow at, as if to say, _I am a Slytherin, am I not?_ She had learned the expression from him, albeit an older, more self aware version. What did he expect? Had he never heard the tale of the frog and the scorpion?

She accepted the Liquid Luck with grace, offering a heartfelt thank you and appropriate responses to the Head of Slytherin's warnings. Once he was fully satisfied, he allowed her to leave the already empty classroom. Packing up her supplies and swinging her satchel up over her shoulder, she made her way out into the dungeon corridors.

Persephone had made it only a few paces when she became aware of another presence. Glancing to her left, she was taken aback to see a figure walking alongside her.

She gasped, startled. In the span of time it took for her to identify her companion, she had already dropped her bag and pulled her wand out. Her potions kit spilled out onto the floor with a clatter.

"Jumpy, are we?" asked Snape, his tone malicious but his actions gentlemanly. He was leaning down to gather her things and ignoring the vinewood following his every move. After a few moments of consideration, she slipped it back into her pocket and watched him ponderously. The man obviously had some experience with sneaking up on people. If he'd intended to hex her, he would have done so before she noticed him. That would come in useful when he became a spy.

"Don't do that," she told him. She'd meant it to come out sternly, but instead it sounded tired. He straightened up and handed her things back to her. "What do you want?"

His hair swung forward to hide his face as he hoisted his own bag up further onto his arm. She couldn't help but notice the hunched set of his shoulders. No doubt he was just as tall and capable of intimidation as he had been—would be—in his adulthood, but to look at him now she'd never have known it. This certainly wasn't the dreaded bat of the dungeons that she had been familiar with in her own time.

"How did you do it?"

"How did I do what?" She inquired irreproachably. She gave him her best deer in the headlights look, batting her eyelashes like she'd seen so many brainless bimbos do before.

He seemed more offended by that than by her refusal to answer. "Don't play coy with me," he growled. "I can see right through you, you know. All your insipid stories and brown nosing. What are you playing at?"

She snorted, walking again towards her original destination. "And here I thought Slytherins were supposed to be cunning. Wasn't that one of the words associated with our house?" Ambition was, too. If he was as quick as he would grow to be, he should catch on to her meaning easily enough. He'd already called her a brown noser. Surely it wasn't so hard to believe that she just intended to be at the top of her class.

"You were sucking up so hard I thought you'd choke. What was in the salt?"

There was a pregnant pause in which she hesitated, before giving in. "Citric acid," she admitted grudgingly. It couldn't hurt to tell him now. She forced herself to keep her gaze ahead, but she was tempted to observe his reaction. From her peripheral vision, she could see him nodding thoughtfully. Neither of them felt the need to continue the conversation, now that he'd gotten his answer.

They'd finally made it to the top of the stairs and into the Entrance Hall. Double potions had been at nine, and lunch would be starting soon. She'd skipped breakfast. But it was necessary to make sure the new hierarchy remained in place.

"Oi! New girl!" called a voice near the Great Hall's double doors. A wolf whistle followed immediately after. Beside her, Severus stiffened.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

I really wanted to include Snape's influence on Hermione, what she learned from him and the Half-Blood Prince, and to show Hermione's Slytherin side. The simple treachery, in my opinion, was a good way to get started. Citric acid does, indeed, look like salt, and is a relatively common product in pharmaceuticals. There are several different recipes known for the Draught of Living Death. I combined knowledge from the books, movies, and video games. You can find my version of the instructions on my tumblr (vivikathemis). The tale of the frog and the scorpion was first introduced to me in the fic _Just to Be_. The moral is basically not to except betrayal when betrayal is in someone's nature. Also, it wasn't until I was editing this that I remembered that the fourth potion was Veritaserum, _not_ Draught of Living Death. Oh well.

* * *

 **Interactive Question**

Do you feel that everyone is currently in character? I'm trying to write a more adult!Hermione, ruthless!Hermione without losing her essence.

* * *

 **Reviews are my muse.**


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